


untitled

by yawawoo



Series: MX: Half-Cooked Ideas [4]
Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Wounds, Joohyuk are brothers, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Blood, Slow Burn, Sort of dystopian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yawawoo/pseuds/yawawoo
Summary: In which Jooheon's life changes after he decides to save a gang member who threatens to haunt him if Jooheon leaves him to die.





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Jooheon has his RUSH era red hair here.

"Jooheon-ah, you don’t have to come every day.”

Said man looks up from his phone, stopping his fingers typing extra shift approvals ( _Ye_ _s, let me take that extra shift. Please._ )

Minhyuk is looking at him knowingly, eyes flickering between the beat up phone in his calloused hand and his eyes. Minhyuk looks a little paler than yesterday, Jooheon notes, the ugly white hospital gown bleak against his fragile frame. But Minhyuk insists on sitting up against the headboard of the bed for Jooheon’s daily visits, and unless he feels particularly weak, he never fails to do so.

Even when practically bedridden Minhyuk still tries to maintain his role as a big brother. Maybe even more so now, since Jooheon is the one taking care of _him_ , making sure he gets all the attention he needs for his poor health, working hard out there alone. Minhyuk worries all the time, and never fails to curse and regret all that leads them to living this life. Jooheon knows. He knows how big the fire of anger Minhyuk keeps under his sunny smiles and hugs. Jooheon himself has long been trying to dim his own raging demons that feed on their past, because there’s nothing he can do about it except moving on and fix the things that aren’t their fault.

“Nah, I know how lonely you get without me,” Jooheon grins—or tries to, because he thinks his brows are furrowing—and pockets the phone without waiting for his boss’s reply, leaning back to the standard visitor chair he’d dragged to Minhyuk’s bedside. The back of the chair digs into the lower parts of his shoulder blades.

Minhyuk gives him a wistful smile, eyes shining with something akin to mild disapproval, something that Jooheon deliberately ignores every time they enter this topic. Though looking paler, it seems like he has more energy today, because Minhyuk leans forward and reaches to pull at Jooheon’s ear. “You never listen to me!” he laughs.

“Only when I know I’m right,” Jooheon says after mock-grimacing, seriousness leaking into his words.

At that, Minhyuk’s smile becomes exasperated. “You’ve grown up, haven’t you, Lee Jooheon?”

The melancholy and warmth with which Minhyuk speak makes heat travel to Jooheon’s cheeks, becoming hotter when Minhyuk chuckles at the redness in his face, carefree and worthy of the long work hours and extra shifts and long walks to the hospital that Jooheon willingly carries out— _withstands—_ every single day. This is what keeps Jooheon from giving in. This, his short daily visits where he can make sure that Minhyuk is being nicely taken care of, when he can enjoy how the 3 p.m. light falls on his brother’s jet black hair and the silver ring dangling around his neck, when he can get his daily fix of familiarity to remember for the rest of the day. After, Jooheon will go to work, lift cargos until midnight, wake up at 8 in the morning, then do his shift at the local restaurant three hours later.

Minhyuk sighs, glancing at the plain square clock on the wall opposite him, and Jooheon knows that his time is up. “Well, you should get going now. Rent me that new drama series on your way, okay?”

Jooheon feels the phone in his pocket vibrate, stands up and takes the plastic container he used to sneak Minhyuk home-made kimchi and the stack of rented drama DVDs. He fits all the items in his hand into his sling bag, shoulders it and folds the chair he used. “I’m beginning to think that you’re losing sleep from how fast you finish these series.”

“Well, the fast forward button helps me maintain a healthy sleeping habit,” Minhyuk winks at him.

Jooheon shakes his head. “I’m going, then. I love you, hyung.”

“I love you, too, Jooheonnie. Be safe.”

* * *

 Midnight in Seoul is never quiet, never peaceful, never seen as the part of the day when you can finally get some rest. Not since a long time. If anything, people sleep much better when the sun is out, the big ball of heat providing a semblance of ephemeral shield against the evil that comes with darkness. When the sun sleeps they have nothing but their own fear and minimum protection against night crawlers and walking greed in the streets. At least that's how the people in Jooheon's district lives, watching over their sleeping children with guns or knives within their reach.

The era in which Minhyuk and Jooheon were born was the closest the world had been to some sort of order; wars ceased and life fell into quasi peace, humanity finding its footing back and perhaps, perhaps finally understanding what it was they truly wanted, and what they needed. But the Groups remain, lead by those who still seek power or justice, warring against themselves and leaving innocents caught up in their crossfire.

Life is like a roller coaster, they say (and Jooheon honestly hates the metaphor, thinks that the real thing is way less cheerful than it sounds to begin with), it rotates and will find itself in several similar situations from time to time. If there had been an era where people were barbarians, certainly the world before Jooheon's birth had been it. And now the world is back to people fighting for power and maintaining territories, just like how it had been hundreds of years ago. Small empires built by Groups, slithering underground to hide from the sun and finding power in the night world.

Walking unarmed after sunset is dangerous, especially when one isn’t registered as a protected civilian under a certain Group. Crossing territorial borders can be tricky when people don't trust you, or if you don't have enough knowledge of back alleys or deserted streets that can hide you in their shadows. Sometimes having your name out there and building a reputation helps, but it's still hard to survive without being under the protection of Groups.

In Jooheon's case, he's got all the above on his side except a Protection Card; he and Minhyuk don't belong to any Group. Even so, Jooheon's general exterior already speaks for itself; most people that he’s not someone to mess with because of his small fierce eyes and confident gait. Most people already assume that he's dangerous, a shadow on his face from the snapback pulled low on his head, looking like a member of a Group out on a night prowl—it doesn’t matter if he’s actually freaking the fuck out every time he’s out late. What matters is that people misunderstand him and he’d like to keep it that way. Manual labor and amateur soccer give him a firm musculature, and Minhyuk always gushes over how he looks angry all the time. And Jooheon is always grateful of all the luck he has in his favor.

On his night walk back home from his job at the loading dock, Jooheon has managed to let gunshots and screams be an irrelevant background noise, no matter how much his whole body clenches to just flee and never come out of his house. If he were a better man, perhaps a seven-year-old version of himself, all the chaos and helplessness would lead him to seek justice and do something about it. But what _is_ justice? Does it even exist still? Is his idea of justice the right one? Can it change anything?

Most importantly: _Can it save Minhyuk?_

Jooheon stops his train of thought. Jooheon doesn't like thinking very much; he's likes that he's a pretty simple minded person. He can't think of justice and plans for a better world without getting too fired up and ending up doing reckless things. And he's learned. He's seen enough to understand that there isn't much he can do. He's never been really good at multitasking. So he decides to focus on what he can: surviving. Trying to keep what little things he has right now, focusing on Minhyuk, the only person that matters to him right now. The only person _left_.

Walking home from his work at the loading dock always triggers contemplation of life in Jooheon's head. His mind always wanders on its own when his body is left doing nothing out of the ordinary. He has walked down these streets for almost three years, and he sometimes lets his guard down a little bit until he reaches one of the darkest and longest alley he has to go through to get home. Every time, he would take a deep breath and prepare himself mentally, taking out his tiny and scratched music player to put on some music to accompany him.

Tonight, in Jooheon’s hands are plastic bags from the convenience store, holding his next-two-days supplies and two cheeseburgers from his favorite joint. DVDs of new drama series he rents for Minhyuk are in his shoulder bag, safely tucked away, along with his work clothes and other necessities. This morning Jooheon had felt particularly restless, so he brought along a small knife he tucked inside his jacket. Winter is approaching and the dark alley he's walking in feels colder than usual.

Jooheon keeps himself alert, one bud of his earphones dangling around his neck with a song that has been paused since when he ordered his dinner at the fast food joint. He always half-expects that this is the day when somebody finally jumps out from between the large dumpsters on his right and murder him and take away his blood-soaked groceries. He expects it every night. But, what he doesn't expect is to catch a glimpse of eerie grey eyes and pale skin under the moonlight.

He doesn't expect to see a _ghost._

So Jooheon shrieks and promptly falls on his ass. Somebody's certainly going to put a hole in his head _now_. Territorial fights aren’t supposed to happen near residential areas, but Jooheon is sure that someone won't hesitate to shoot him for disturbing their sleep. 

"What the fuck!! Who's there!?" Jooheon will later think that it's really stupid to try to ask a ghost questions, but he guesses that those horror films Minhyuk made him watch have bigger impacts on his subconscious more than he knows.

For a moment there are only dogs barking somewhere and a distant series of explosion. The ghost shifts, grey eyes disappearing in a long blink. Jooheon flinches.

"I'm sorry to have shocked you," a slightly breathless, super deep male voice floats across the air. "But can you help me a little?"

Jooheon's heart is in a dangerous threat of a cardiac arrest when he sees the ghost, but somehow his thundering heartbeat slows down a little hearing that. But still. "Are you a ghost?"

"No," the answer is quick, like the... person is actually expecting the question. "No, I am not. But I am currently struggling with a few wounds that need to be treated soon, otherwise I'll become one."

"How do I know you're not gonna stab me to death or eat my soul?" Jooheon asks suspiciously.

"If I die here my soul will most likely be a restless one and haunt you forever," the man continues as if Jooheon hasn't spoken.

The redhead tenses up at that. "Fuck. Fine. Oh dear God, just please let me survive this," he relents, and he doesn't know why. Maybe part of him want to make sure that the man really isn't a ghost, that sometimes a human being can look that ethereal (even slumped in between dumpsters and half covered in soot, upon closer inspection.)

Jooheon gathers his fallen plastic bags in one hand (glad he’s stocked up on eggs a few days earlier), takes a few tentative steps to the man and extends a slightly trembling hand, extending his arm as far away from his body as possible. A pale hand shoots up and grips his, a little slippery with something like blood. Jooheon only barely manages another scream before he swallows it. He gives a little pull and doesn't except the man to sway forward bonelessly.

"Shit!" Jooheon's reflexes saves the man from face planting onto the unhygienic pavement. He supports the man with an arm around his ribs, knees bent to accommodate his stature. "Dude, don't die on me!"

Finally getting more light on his profile, Jooheon can finally see him from head to toe. Under someone's flickering fluorescent balcony light, Jooheon takes in the dark, dark hair, down to the pale, sweaty nape, slumped shoulders covered in dusty black suit jacket, the fabric bunched here and there. From his hold around the man Jooheon can feel his labored breathing. He doesn't seem to be able to stand on his own any time soon. Not that he's heavy or anything. Jooheon had unfortunately carried bodies far bigger.

"You okay? Want me to bring you to a hospital?" Jooheon asks, adjusting his hold and posture, straightening so that the man is half leaning to his chest. Jooheon can't see his face, only the crown of his head, but he remembers catching sight of a prominent nose. When a cold breeze blows, a strange smell wafts off the man’s pale dark strands—not the smell of dumpsters, but a little like fruity shampoo and smoke and blood and Jooheon stops thinking right there.

"No," comes the breathless reply, and Jooheon knows he must be in a lot of pain. "Just take me to your home, please. I hope you have a first aid kit and needles? And a lot of alcohol?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Jooheon agrees quickly, deciding to think about _needles_ later, when they’re at his apartment and sitting. "Come on, it's three minutes from here."

With every slow and careful step, every labored exhale, warning bells blare in Jooheon's mind. The man is possibly a core member of a Group. Definitely someone Jooheon should never, ever associate himself with. But it’s hard to say, seeing how weak and delicate he is in Jooheon’s arm (he doesn’t know if this man feels firm because he’s built or because he’s really skinny). Maybe he looks less dangerous because he’s wounded? If anything, Jooheon really hopes he’s not pretending just to stab him later and raid his place. Well, the man can also be an unfortunate guy who happened to trip and fall right into a climatic fight and caught a flying bullet. Jooheon really hopes this person he’s helping is simpler than all of the above. Simpler and safer.

The man is silent, save for the small grunts of pain and his harsh breathing. If Jooheon is not handling him gently enough, he doesn’t say anything. Something in his posture radiates determination, and when Jooheon tries to subtly look at his face, though soaked in cold sweat and looking paler than the murky moonlight itself, his eyes are set forward, thick brows furrowed.

Jooheon did say it’s going to be a three-minute walk, but clearly he didn’t factor in half-dragging a limping person in that statement. Halfway in their journey Jooheon has started to really consider hauling the man up and throwing him over his shoulder to make it faster and safer. After all, the sooner they are inside, the less vulnerable they are to being mistaken as members of warring Groups. But there are certainly more reasons as to why he really shouldn’t do that, the obvious being the existence of male pride, and that Jooheon doesn’t know the extent of his wounds. It won’t be pretty for him to deposit a body onto his sofa instead.

When they are slowly trudging up the short steps to Jooheon’s (hardly his and Minhyuk’s anymore) modest 2DK apartment, the man finally makes an alarming pained sound that freezes Jooheon in his movement.

“Oh God, are you dying?” Jooheon asks, honestly panicking, because the man just let out a pitiful _sob._

“I…” he starts, between heavy pants. “It hurts, s-so much… I’m very sorry, but I c-can’t anymore…”

Jooheon looks forlornly at the man’s weakly hanging head, and then the flight of stairs they still need to take to reach Jooheon’s place on the second floor. He slowly lowers the man to the ground, his own body folding in half to follow and steady him. They sit there at the bottom of the stairs, the world silent around them except for the rustling of fabric and heavy breathing as the night goes on.

When the man finally lifts his head to lean it against the stairs’ railing, Jooheon finally can see his face, although the lighting isn’t that much of an improvement from when they were in the alley. The man is closing his eyes, breathing from thin, slightly open lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as if trying to wash away the taste of pain. “Hey, hey, hang in there,” Jooheon murmurs and tightens his hold around the man’s waist. “It’s still not too late to go to the hospital.”

The man opens his eyes, his sharp grey eyes, and for a moment Jooheon forgets what he just said. “Just a few more minutes, please,” he says, oddly polite, before closing his eyes again.

“Don’t fucking die on me, bro, that’s not cool,” Jooheon says, trying to find a good reason why he really needs the hospital, despite the obvious. The redhead’s eyes widen when his eyes catch a bloody spot on the man’s stark white shirt. “Oi! You’re bleeding like crazy!”

“Yes, that’s what have been hurting me,” the man says, almost patiently like he’s talking to a child.

“You’re fucking shot in the stomach?!”

“It didn’t hit anything fatal… although… I do feel like it’s bleeding too much…”

“What?! You—I—okay, _fuck_ , you know what? We’re going to the hospital.”

“No!” the raise of volume stops Jooheon from taking out his phone, and there’s a small hand with a deadly grip around his wrist. If Jooheon weren’t so shocked, he’d realize how bruising the hold was. The man sighs like the effort in raising his voice has drained out all of his remaining energy. “I have my reasons. Please, I can treat my wounds with adequate equipment.”

As much as Jooheon wants to argue, the surety in the man’s tone speaks of experience and confidence, regardless of how pale the owner of the voice looks right now. There’s something in his eyes that pins Jooheon on the spot, something like a well-contained fire that slowly eats at Jooheon’s worry. Something that tells Jooheon: _you can trust me._ With a heavy sigh, Jooheon relents. “But you’re not walking up two floors and leaving a trail of gore all over the place. The evil landlord will have my head if he finds out.”

“How do you suggest I get up there, then?” the man asks, and Jooheon is glad because at least he isn’t making any attempt to stand up on his own. He’s glad, but this mean he’s kind of fucked.

“I, uh, have an idea. But I’m not sure you’ll like it,” Jooheon says, averting his eyes from the unnerving, unreadable gaze and rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“My life is at stake, I doubt that there is anything that you could suggest that I will be against,” the smaller man says, his shoulder moving in a miniscule shrug. His nonchalance is short lived however, when he winces in pain again. 

“You sure?” Jooheon has to make sure.

“Do I have to give you a kiss?” the man asks, promptly calling silence to descend upon them.

Jooheon’s face is flooded with red. “WHAT. NO! I was going to say that I’d carry you instead!”

A small, weak smile and a crinkle of the eyes appear on the man’s face, and he weakly raises one arm that isn’t clutching at his bleeding wound. “Well then, please carry me. It's not going to hurt my pride or whatever.”

Without a fuss, both men agree that bridal-style is currently the safest and most efficient way to carry someone with a bleeding stomach. Jooheon pushes his plastic bags further around his hands so that they hang on his wrists, checking their balance and making sure he won’t drop anything on the way. He is already kneeling down and getting ready to place his arms behind the man’s back and under his knees when he speaks.

“I think you will need to take out your keys first,” and Jooheon nods agreeably, amazed at how thoughtful his… guest is.

After gripping his keys in his right hand, Jooheon proceeds to carefully lift the man up. When Jooheon finally stands straight, he contemplates for a moment because he feels like something is missing.

“Am I heavier than you thought?” the man asks timidly, looking up to Jooheon from under sweaty bangs.

For some reason Jooheon blushes and can’t help thinking about how bizarre everything is at the moment. “Uh, no… it’s just…” Jooheon averts his eyes, “I think you need to hold on to my neck…”

Without words, the man does just that. Jooheon clears his throat and blinks several times, before focusing on the stairs. “Alright, here we go. I’ll try to go as fast as I can without moving around too much.”

The stairs are quite narrow, and usually, every time Jooheon passes someone on his way up or down, he has to turn his body to the side so that the other person can pass. The man in his arms isn’t that tall or big, maybe they’re around the same height, but his legs still jut out and go beyond the stairs’ width. Even walking half sideways, Jooheon still has to tighten his hold and make the man curl up more so that they can fit, and it results in pained whimpers and a tighter hold around his neck. Jooheon endures it all; he can’t imagine the pain the other man is feeling. It must be worse than aching muscles.

In times like this, Jooheon is grateful he has the first room of the floor. Living in an edge room means he only has one neighbor on his right and the ones above and below him to worry about. Another advantage is that, apparently, (and hopefully) it can raise the survival chance of wounded people.

“Hold on tight,” Jooheon says as he lowers his right hand to insert his key to the lock. The man’s legs are almost literally on his shoulder, but thankfully he can open the door swiftly and proceed inside smoothly. A rare occurrence, really, Jooheon being smooth.

With his elbow Jooheon presses the light switch in his short hallway, lighting the relatively neat dwelling. The red haired man makes his way carefully to the tan suede couch—a jewel he found at a corner secondhand store years ago—and slowly, very slowly, lowers the man to its thinning cushions. Jooheon knows that the couch’s middle is the thinnest, and he feels sorry that the frame digs into the man's lower back as he lies down.

“What do you need?” Jooheon demands with wide eyes as soon as the man's head rests on a pillow, his voice cracking a bit from panic and his labored breathing. He barely notices the slowly drying splotches of blood on his hands and jacket.

“Alcohol. Towels. A sewing kit. First aid kit. Please tell me you have a sewing kit,” the man croaks, and Jooheon’s already rushing to his bedroom to retrieve towels and Minhyuk’s sewing kit. He piles everything in his arms, dumping them onto his coffee table and pushing it closer to the couch so that the bleeding man on his couch won’t have to reach too far.

“Alcohol. And. Water. Butter knife.”

 _Butter knife?!_ “Shit, right.”

Jooheon hands him the still full but already open bottle of alcohol, and almost trips on his own feet as he rushes to the kitchen to fill a washbasin with water and pull out another empty one just in case. He puts the handle of his only butter knife between his teeth. He spills some of the water as he brings it back and puts it down onto the coffee table. The man has dumped everything on its surface and is now struggling to put on a medical glove on his left hand. Jooheon darts forward to help him even though he can now smell the tang of blood.

With his other ungloved hand, the man finally pulls up his shirt, and Jooheon gags at the sight of the bloody hole on the man’s left abdomen. Jooheon quickly looks away before the gory details can carve themselves in his head, breathing in and out to calm himself, sweat trickling down the side of his face. Jooheon gets up to maybe get some water for himself, but then he sees the man pouring alcohol over the knife. He looks away again. He doesn't _want to know._

However, a pained scream fills the room and Jooheon whips his head so fast he almost dislocates his neck muscles. The man is _digging_ into his wound with the knife, and blood is flowing, and Jooheon’s vision whites out.

* * *

When Jooheon opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the blotch of brown on his ceiling from the leak he’s yet to fix. Not that he’s able to process that far before bolting up and immediately looking toward his couch. The man is still there, though he’s not moving, and Jooheon’s heart honestly stops beating for a second or two. His left hand is splayed limply across the coffee table, above the scissors and bandages like he doesn’t have the strength to move them away.

“Oh my God, oh my God, he’s dead,” Jooheon says to himself, backing away from the couch. He doesn’t get very far; his back immediately meets a wall.

“’m not dead,” a small, weak voice calls out, and Jooheon’s body tenses up, his first reflect is to look around to find a ghost talking. But there’s no one else in the apartment and the left hand on his coffee table is twitching, so he closes his eyes and breathes out with a hand on his chest. “Not yet, I guess.”

Jooheon pales again. “No way. You can’t die after making me go through that!”

Several seconds pass, and Jooheon gets no reply. He finally gets up on his feet and slowly walks around the couch to look at the man. He’s splayed sort of haphazardly and awkwardly on the couch. His bloodied shirt is still pulled up half across his body, and Jooheon has never been more glad to find fresh gauze covering the man’s wound. His hands are clean of blood. When Jooheon’s eyes finally reach his face, he can see the man’s pinched, pained expression; his eyes shut tight and mouth an equally tight line, his teeth grinding. Jooheon’s heart hurts.

“Hey… can I do something? To help?” he asks, nervously fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. Realizing that he’s still wearing it, he pulls the zip down and takes it off, waiting for an answer, an instruction, _anything_.

The man breathes shallowly. “I’m just waiting for the painkillers to work. But thank you. Thank you so much.”

Jooheon finds himself staring at tired, half-open eyes. He wants to do something, and he feels so helpless he wants to cry. He suddenly feels ten again; helpless and crying as he hugged Minhyuk’s head on his lap, begging to the world to not take his brother away.

“…name?”

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Jooheon. Lee Jooheon,” Jooheon promptly answers.

“Lee Jooheon. Good to know the name of my hero,” the man says with light humor, a tiny playful smile on his still pale face.

“Well yeah, call me that when you survive through all… this,” Jooheon says, looking away and gesturing with his hands, because he’s not blushing at being called a hero.

“Well, Lee Jooheon-ssi, my name is I—Im Changkyun. My name is Changkyun.”

 _Changkyun_. The man finally has a name. Jooheon looks at him again, and he is just about to say something when his front door is opened with a loud bang. Jooheon’s looks at Changkyun with panicked, uncomprehending eyes. He knows it’s stupid but he runs to see down the hallway and is immediately pushed back by an ash brown haired man in a black suit, walking briskly towards the couch. Jooheon reflexively grabs his arm.

“What the fuck! Who are you?!” Jooheon demands, angry and confused and scared and _fuck, I really am gonna die tonight._

The man glares at him, looking thoroughly offended at being screamed at, looks down at Jooheon’s hand on his upper arm like it disgusts him. He looks to Jooheon’s left and points his chin at Jooheon.

The last thing Jooheon sees before blacking out again is a huge man in black seizing him and hitting the back of his neck.

 


End file.
